


to love is to understand

by kaermorons



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Geralt's Hmms, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: Five times Jaskier knew what Geralt meant before he said it out loud, and one time Jaskier was surprised.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 1000
Collections: Finished Fics I Love





	to love is to understand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [janthonyashtoreth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/janthonyashtoreth/gifts).



**1.**

“Hags!” Jaskier shouts, a moment after Geralt sensed danger afoot. The sudden cut from Jaskier’s inane rambling had initially caught Geralt off guard, having never seen him actually pay attention to the signs of the monster’s attack before. Jaskier was already two-hands deep in Roach’s saddlebag, tossing a vial of Black Blood to him before he even needed to shout for it. Jaskier also had taken the initiative and grabbed several bombs from the pouch as well. The hags were making their way forward at a fast clip, despite their all-fours crawl. Geralt downed the vial and shouted as he felt the effects bleed through his veins like a spark on a wick.

The hags went down fast, but not after one of their claws had sliced clean through his leather pauldron, nicking his shoulder just enough that he felt numb all over. Pain was best exacted through specific areas, and the hags knew that they’d at least injure their prey before death. Jaskier was pulling him back as soon as the beasts stilled on the road. “Necrophages will be on us soon, if we don’t get a move on. You need somewhere we can safely bandage that up,” his voice was steady and confident. Sometimes, Geralt didn’t realize that Jaskier had grown up, for as youthful as he seemed, the wisdom in his voice came only after a decade of being on the road together. “Up you get, onto Roach.” He pushed and fussed until he was back in Roach’s saddle, where he grunted in surprise as Jaskier climbed on before him. Jaskier interpreted aloud. “Yes, yes, I’m an idiot if I think you’re letting this happen, we’ll get to town faster this way.” Jaskier clicked his tongue at Roach and they moved forward.

Geralt could smell the sharp tang of adrenaline on the sweat of Jaskier’s scalp, feeling the high of the blur of battle start to leech out of him with every breath. He should probably say thank you. Had he been alone, he wouldn’t have clocked the animals as quickly and wouldn’t have had the focus necessary to arm himself with Witcher potions.  _ But Jaskier knew _ . He just cleared his throat and focused on the road ahead.

“You’re welcome.” Jaskier said, sounding much too smug for how tense he was.

* * *

**2.**

Jaskier was leaning against the side of a barn, one arm wrapped around his ribs protectively. His head was tilted back, catching most of the rain that had swept in. Droplets fell in rivulets down the smooth column of his throat, and Geralt’s mouth went dry. Jaskier’s legs were shaking, but when he noticed Geralt coming closer from the main road, he stood straighter, trying to hide his obvious injury and pain. He’d heard there was a fight in the tavern, earlier. Their eyes locked for a moment before Jaskier’s ridiculously floppy hair fell forward from his forehead.

“Before you say anything, I know I probably deserve worse.” Jaskier rasped, a slight wheeze in his throat. Definitely some bruised ribs, then. Couple shots to the gut, and the beginnings of a black eye. Geralt noted with pride that Jaskier’s own knuckles were shaking and raw, still pumping with energy from the scuffle. Geralt tilted his head, indicating for him to follow. Jaskier followed. Jaskier always followed. They made their way to an abandoned cabin not too far in from the treeline. Roach was already tied off under the awning, so she wasn’t too annoyed from the rain come morning. Jaskier’s wheezing breaths only got louder the more they walked uphill, and Geralt shoved down the pang of worry building in his chest.

The inside of the cabin was covered in a thick layer of dust, but it was warm and Geralt already had a fire going, courtesy of Igni, by the time Jaskier could bear sitting down on a nearby chair.

“Off.” Geralt grunted, hands already making quick work of the many buttons and fastenings on Jaskier’s doublet. So flashy, for a scrappy fighter.

“Normally, I’d be delighted, Geralt, but I think I just want to take a rest and—” Geralt cut him off with a toneless “hmm” that only Jaskier could interpret. “Just believe me, Geralt, I’ll be fine come morning and—” Another grunt. “Fine.” Jaskier helped shuck his clothes off piece by piece, until the angry shape of a fist revealed itself in the firelight. He’d been hit by quite the left hook, and Geralt knew he’d have to train him better, for when he wasn’t around. The ribs were definitely bruised, but light prodding got him only complaints and no woozy fainting, so none were cracked, at least. They sat so close, in total silence as Geralt wrapped him up and slathered a salve on the wounds. “What a nice change of pace.” Jaskier said, offhandedly. “I should get hurt more often.”

Geralt gave an unamused grunt.

“Right, right, I’m an idiot, okay.”

* * *

**3.**

Oxenfurt wasn’t one of Geralt’s most active monster locations, but the perks of having Jaskier around meant that sometimes, they could earn an easy coin from just one of their skillsets, instead of scraping by on both their rotten lucks. Jaskier was performing for the school, as a guest alumni of the faculty. News of his storytelling fame had reached from the Edge of the World all the way to the Universities, much to Geralt’s annoyance. Everyone seemed to know Jaskier, welcoming him with embraces and kisses on cheeks which left Geralt on edge and jumpy. This possessive feeling had been creeping into the back of his mind more often now, spurred by how many gentle glances and small smiles Jaskier had been giving on their adventures now.

By the time they reached their rooms in the faculty housing unit, Geralt was ready to haul Jaskier over his shoulder and make a run for the river. Jaskier closed the door with a sigh and leaned against it, visibly exhausted for the first time since they entered the city walls. Geralt crowded him up against the door, a steady presence, here for anything Jaskier needed. If the closeness bothered Jaskier, he hid it well. In fact, his hands reached out for Geralt in an embrace.

Geralt could only wrap his hands around the smaller man’s frame, smelling all sorts of things on him, breathing him in until everything smelled like Jaskier again.

“Didn’t know it would get you this riled up.” Jaskier joked, nuzzling into Geralt’s chest. Geralt gave a disapproving grumble, more humming than words. He dropped his voice to a deeper register, a growl, imitating Geralt. “You’re mine, Jas, and anyone else that puts a hand on you is going to lose it.”

Geralt, not in too much of a joking mood, only rested his chin atop his bard and gave a soft “hmm”.

“You’re not supposed to  _ agree! _ ”

* * *

**4.**

Geralt didn’t pay too much attention to things like fashion and color. He knew that black was intimidating, and white usually turned to black by the time it got soaked through with selkimore guts enough times, but wearing anything flashy or bright only made him stand out even more. He left all fashion choices up to Jaskier, who chose well most of the time, but tonight was a fucking nightmare.

The witcher was in all black, plain in style but well-made, good enough for a Redanian court. He was uncomfortable around everyone, but felt exposed with this many people here. Jaskier had told him to “go on without him” and “I’ll see you there”. Jaskier was wearing a deep red satin, with little gold loops embroidered on the hems. Very patriotic. The warmer colors, the candlelight, and the flush high on his cheeks only made his eyes more intense. He’d been playing for quite awhile, and the drink had poured freely, on the bill of some other king’s coinpurse. Geralt had to look away momentarily and when he looked back, his mouth went dry.

Jaskier had unfastened a few buttons at the top of his doublet, exposing his frilly linen shirt below, and his bruised collarbone. Geralt felt his blood rush decidedly south when he remembered the noises Jaskier had made when receiving those marks. Jaskier knew exactly what he was doing, locking eyes with the White Wolf and singing another slow love song befitting a friendly court as this one. Geralt had heard the words a hundred times in their travels, had it sung to him while Jaskier rode him, just as honey-dripping slow as the melody.

The song ended and all the air seemed to rush into Geralt’s lungs again. His feet, bewitched, carried him to the performers’ stage, one single purpose in mind.

“Geralt, didn’t see you there.” Jaskier said, mock-surprised. He’d been eyeing up the Witcher all night long. His eyes gave another rake over Geralt, who shivered under the stare. “Are you here to request a song?”

Geralt, always rendered speechless by the bard’s sexual ease, gave his customary “hmm” and shot him a look.

“Not in front of all these people, Geralt, you’ll cause a scandal!”

Jaskier still followed him out of the throne room, undoing more of his clothes as he went.

* * *

**5.**

It had been months since they’d seen one another. The fight on the mountaintop had been earth shattering all around, and Geralt wouldn’t let himself sleep, worried as he was with thoughts of Jaskier’s whereabouts, his health, his smile, was he smiling at someone else? Ciri had convinced him to track the bard down, and it was almost too easy. Jaskier was in the next town over. Ciri was stashed away in the room they rented and Geralt went into town. He thought of all the things he’d say with every step he took, but they all washed away like a castle on the sand when he caught those cornflower blue eyes.

Jaskier looked older. His back was stiffer, a frown resting on his face where an easy smile had once perched. Geralt waved off the others approaching him and went up to the bard, throat bobbing with the threat of all the words at the edge of falling out of him. Jaskier deserved words, he deserved explanations and apologies and stories told in more than four or five words. Jaskier deserved quiet morning kisses and being held in the evening when the wind howled, but not as loud as Jaskier.

Just a step away from each other, Geralt stopped. His eyes were searching his face for any sign of anything, maybe he was just refamiliarizing himself the way Geralt was. Jaskier cleared his throat. He’d clearly just gotten done performing, and his voice was a little hoarse. “Geralt. Been awhile.” he was fiddling with his lute nervously, a tick Geralt missed so much it ached in his very bones.

Geralt opened his mouth to speak, closed it. Repeated the action a few more times, each epic speech he’d thought over falling from his hands like mist. Jaskier never failed to steal the breath from his lungs, the words from his mouth. Geralt felt frustration bubble in his mouth, hot and embarrassing. He gave a “hmm” of affirmation for what Jaskier had said, and Jaskier’s beautiful face broke out in a wide smile that stopped his cold Witcher’s heart in its tracks. Jaskier stood, still on top of a stool, and looked down at Geralt, who could only look up in awe at the man before him.

“How is it that even after months apart, I can still understand what you’re trying to say in everything you are?” Geralt’s breath stuttered as Jaskier cupped his cheek gently. Geralt’s eyes fluttered closed, and his insides flipped. “How can I still read you like a sailor reads the stars?” his voice was a whisper, just for them.

“Hmm.” Geralt could only give that answer, as their lips crashed together like waves upon a shore.

“Love you too.”

* * *

**+1.**

It was a long time coming, Geralt had to admit to himself. The looks from Yennefer, every time he patted his pockets before getting up. The knowing stares from Ciri, too wise for her young age by a mile. Jaskier had welcomed adventure back into his life with as much grace as anyone could have, and Geralt fell a bit harder every day for the bright, energetic man he’d seen grow before his eyes. A Dandelion, indeed.

And Witchers didn’t do this kind of thing. They never hitched their horse to any one post for longer than necessary, and for a hundred years, Geralt had liked it that way. Until Jaskier, Geralt thought that living was just a heart beating until it stopped. Until almost losing him for good, Geralt didn’t know the feeling of having a heart beat in time with his own, didn’t know the rush of excitement to know that he could  _ trust _ another as he trusted himself. Geralt knew that Jaskier wouldn’t settle down in any one place, and that he’d hitched his horse to Geralt until he could no longer go on.

Geralt knew he was a man of action, and not a man of prose the way Jaskier was. He supposed being around the bard for as long as he had was beginning to take its toll. He saw pretty maidens and lovestruck young men dancing in fields, flowers in their hair, and felt a pang when he saw Jaskier next. Geralt was a man of no city, a man of no country, and Kaer Morhen didn’t have any traditions he could go off of. Jaskier was much the same, and seemed only keen on tradition when it involved song and coin.

It was a bewitched silver band that rang a perfect clear note when flicked. Jaskier wasn’t really a man of jewelry, but a ring seemed blunt enough of an offer that it couldn’t be dismissed as anything but what Geralt intended. Things had been slow, which meant things had been happy, the four of them traveling together across the Continent. Geralt felt fiercely protective of his company, but felt nervousness strike him ever since he’d bought the band.

“Geralt, can we talk?” Jaskier asked. It struck a chord of fear down the Witcher’s spine, which didn’t show in his face. Geralt nodded and they took a walk away from the camp. Jaskier was silent for a long while before speaking. “You’ve been off recently. You won’t let me touch you. Did I… did I do something wrong?” Jaskier sounded so defeated already, it broke Geralt’s heart to hear him this way.

“No, Jaskier, nothing’s wrong, things have just been…” Geralt sighed, looking anywhere but the man before him. The ring burned in his pocket. “You know what. Fuck it.” Jaskier’s eyes widened to the size of plates as Geralt took a knee, retrieved the damned ring in his pocket, and held it out.

“W...what?” Jaskier breathed. “Are you— are you?”

Geralt couldn’t help himself. “Hmm?”

“YES, you bloody Witcher, yes!” he cried, tackling Geralt to the forest floor in a rain of kisses Geralt could hardly feel over his smile.


End file.
